John Grisham - The Confession

“I know the legend of Darrell Clark. His final words were ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ Luke 23, verse 46, the last words of Jesus before he died on the cross, according to Luke anyway. But you’re missing something here, Keith. Clark killed three people, execution style, and after they convicted him, he never made a serious claim of innocence. He was guilty. I am not. Clark deserved to be punished, not to be killed, but imprisoned for life. Me, I am innocent.”

“True, but death is death, and in the end nothing else matters except your relationship with God.”

“So you’re trying to convince me that I should go running back to God here at the last minute, and just sort of forget the past nine years.”

“You blame God for the past nine years?”

“Yes, I do. This is what happened to me, Keith. I was eighteen years old, a longtime Christian, still active in church, but also doing some things that most kids do, nothing bad, but, hell, when you grow up in a house as strict as mine, you’re gonna rebel a little. I was a good student, the football thing was on hold, but I wasn’t running drugs and beating people. I stayed off the streets. I was looking forward to college. Then, for some reason I guess I’ll never understand, a bolt of lightning hits me square in the forehead. I’m wearing handcuffs. I’m in jail. My picture is on the front page. I’m declared guilty long before the trial. My fate is determined by twelve white people, half of them good, solid Baptists. The prosecutor was a Methodist, the judge was Presbyterian, or at least their names were on church rolls somewhere. They were also screwing each other, but I guess we all have a weakness for flesh. Most of us anyway. Screwing each other, yet pretending to give me a fair trial. The jury was a bunch of rednecks. I remember sitting in the courtroom, looking at their faces as they condemned me to death—hard, unforgiving, Christian faces—and thinking to myself, ‘We don’t worship the same God.’ And we don’t. How can God allow His people to kill so often? Answer that, please.”

“God’s people are often wrong, Donté, but God is never wrong. You can’t blame Him.”

The fight left him. The weight of the moment returned. Donté leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “I was a faithful servant, Keith, and look what I get.”

Robbie walked in from the outside and stood by the visitors’ cell. Keith’s time was up. “Would you pray with me, Donté?”

“Why? I prayed the first three years I was in prison, and things just got worse. I could’ve prayed ten times a day, and I would still be sitting right here, talking to you.”

“All right, mind if I pray?”

“Go right ahead.”

Keith closed his eyes. He found it hard to pray under the circumstances—Donté staring at him, Robbie anxiously waiting, the clock ticking louder and louder. He asked God to give Donté strength and courage, and have mercy on his soul. Amen.

When he finished, he stood and patted Donté on the shoulder, still not believing that he would be dead in less than an hour. Donté said, “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m honored to meet you, Donté.”

They shook hands again. Then the metal clanged and the doors opened. Keith stepped out, Robbie stepped in. The clock on the wall, indeed the only clock that mattered, gave the time as 5:34.

———

The looming execution of a man claiming innocence did nothing to arouse the national media. The stories had become so commonplace. However, the tit-for-tat angle of the church burnings on the eve of the execution woke up a few producers. The melee at the high school added some fuel. But the possibility of a race riot—now, that was too good to be ignored. Toss in the drama of the National Guard, and by late afternoon Slone was buzzing with brightly painted television vans from Dallas and Houston and other cities, most providing direct feeds to network and cable stations. When word spread that a man claiming to be the real killer wanted to confess on camera, the train station became an instant magnet for the media. With Fred Pryor directing things, or at least attempting to keep some order, Travis Boyette stood on the bottom step of the platform and looked at the reporters and the cameras. Microphones were thrust at him like bayonets. Fred stood at his right side, actually shoving some of the reporters back.

“Quiet!” Fred barked at them. Then he nodded at Travis and said, “Go ahead.”

Travis was as stiff as a deer in headlights, but he swallowed hard and plunged in. “My name is Travis Boyette, and I killed Nicole Yarber. Donté Drumm had nothing to do with her murder. I acted alone. I abducted her, raped her repeatedly, then strangled her to death. I disposed of her body, and it’s not in the Red River.”

“Where is it!”

“It’s in Missouri, where I left it.”

“Why’d you do it!”

“Because I can’t stop myself. I’ve raped other women, lots of them, sometimes I got caught, sometimes I didn’t.”

This startled the reporters, and a few seconds elapsed before the next question. “So you are a convicted rapist?”

“Oh yes. I have four or five convictions.”

“Are you from Slone?”

“No, but I was living here when I killed Nicole.”

“Did you know her?”

———

Dana Schroeder had been parked in front of the television in the den for the past two hours, glued to CNN, waiting for more news from Slone. There had been two reports, brief little snippets about the unrest and the National Guard. She had watched the governor make a fool of himself. The story, though, was gathering momentum. When she saw the face of Travis Boyette, she said out loud, “There he is.”

Her husband was at death row consoling the man convicted of the killing, and she was watching the one who had actually committed the crime.

———

Joey Gamble was in a bar, the first one he’d seen when he left the office of Agnes Tanner. He was drunk but still aware of what was happening. There were two televisions hanging from the ceiling at opposite ends of the bar, one was on SportsCenter, the other on CNN. When Joey saw the story from Slone, he walked closer to the television. He listened to Boyette as he talked about killing Nicole. “You son of a bitch,” Joey mumbled, and the bartender gave him a quizzical look.

But then he felt good about himself. He had finally told the truth, and now the real killer had come forward. Donté would be spared. He ordered another beer.

———

Judge Elias Henry was sitting with his wife in the den of their home, not far from Civitan Park. The doors were locked; his hunting rifles were loaded and ready. A police car drove by every ten minutes. A helicopter watched from above. The air was thick with the smell of smoke—smoke from the fireworks party at the park, and smoke from the destroyed buildings. The mob could be heard. Its nonstop drumming and booming rap and screeching chants had only intensified throughout the afternoon. Judge and Mrs. Henry had discussed leaving for the night. They had a son in Tyler, an hour away, and he had encouraged them to flee, if only for a few hours. But they decided to stay, primarily because the neighbors were staying and there was strength in numbers. The judge had chatted with the chief of police, who somewhat nervously assured him that things were under control.

The television was on, another breaking story from Slone. The judge grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, then there was the man he’d seen in the video, not three hours earlier. Travis Boyette was talking, giving details, staring at a bunch of microphones.

“Did you know the girl?” a reporter asked.

“I’d never met her, but I had followed her. I knew who she was, knew she was a cheerleader. I picked her out.”